


The Supplanter

by LucilleBarker



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: American History, Angst, Coming of Age, F/M, Great Depression, Non-Linear Narrative, Time - Freeform, Tragic Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucilleBarker/pseuds/LucilleBarker
Summary: Jimmy and Chuck watch an old woman waving her arm at them. Her dark red hair has dulled now that she’s seventy-two, but when the light hits it in a certain way, the red shine from her youth blazes. She walks to them as quickly as her legs can carry her, hobbling only a bit as Ruth Marion McGill makes her way to her sons.The tragic tale of Ruth McGill.
Relationships: Chuck McGill & Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman, Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler, Ruth McGill/Original Male Character, Ruth McGill/Willard McGill
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	1. The Prodigal Son Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruth Davenport meets her brother’s friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’ve been laboring over this for about a month or two. And I’m really, really hoping it pays off in the chapters to come.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Madison, WI - Summer 1940_ **

Ruth examines herself in the vanity’s mirror. Her overalls overwhelm her pixie-ish figure and make her look even more boyish, but the puffed sleeves of her thin cotton shirt make her feel sweet and girly. And her brownish-red hair is curled in such a way that reminds her of a Grecian statue. A “juxtaposition,” Pop would call it. 

She turns to the side and her eye traces a flat line down her chest. Flat, flat, flat! Her best friend Betty Tillerson was six months younger than she was, but her curves were already starting to develop.

 _Being fourteen is such a bore!_ she thinks. _I want to be grown. I want pearls and black lace dresses and cigarettes._

“You’re not dressed?”

Ruth jumps at the voice of her mother. The mirror reflects her Momma standing in the doorway. Margaret Davenport’s teaching days are decades behind her, but that strict schoolmarm bun has only grown grayer and tighter. 

“I like what I’m wearing,” Ruth says.

“Turn around and face me, please. I’m not having a conversation with your back.”

Ruth sighs, loud and exaggerated. It doesn’t matter that she turns around because Momma is already digging through her daughter’s chest of drawers. She pulls out a white dress textured with (bumps). In the sunlight, they look like little polka dots.

“Those are my Sunday clothes!”

Momma doesn’t listen. She hands Ruth the dress, placing it against the girl’s chest and inspecting the length. “It’s perfect. Put it on. I want you to look nice.”

“He’s not gonna care. He’ll just make fun of me.”

“Ruth Marion Davenport, put on the dress or I will make you rue the day. And wear a shift this time, _please_.”

Momma closes the door to her room, and Ruth counts to five before she walks to her pillow and buries her face in it. The thick clumps of down inside muffle the frustrated scream that tears at her throat. When she pulls back, she takes a breath and wipes away the spittle that escaped her mouth. She unbuckles her overalls and the heavy denim plops to the floor.

When she comes out of her room, Momma is standing over sink and scrubbing away at the dishes. Professor Hal Davenport—her Pop, her Dear Ol’ Dad—sits at the table and reads from a thick book. It could be Dostoyevsky, but it could also be one of their many Bibles. She goes to hover over him, and sees that she’s wrong. At least, she doesn’t think there’s a “Quasimodo” in the Bible. She giggles at the joke inside her own head, and the sound draws Pop’s eyes up.

He smiles up at her, his glasses sliding down his nose. She returns his closed lip smirk with a big grin plastered across her face. Her Pop pats her back, but it’s a barely there touch. Like too much affection could break her. 

“You look nice,” he tells her.

“Thanks, Pop.”

“Doesn’t she look nice, Margie?”

Momma looks up for a moment, and then turns back to her dishes. “I should have ironed out those creases in her dress.”

Ruth looks down and notices the folded lines Momma mentioned. She runs her hand over them, but they remain where they are, stubborn to move after days of forming. _I look like a napkin_ , she thinks. _This wouldn’t happen with black lace and pearls._

 _Aroo-wah!_ The Davenports turn their heads up at the howl of a car horn. The dishes clatter from Momma’s hands as she races out the door. Pop follows his wife, but takes slower strides. Ruth looks down at her dress once more, tries one more time to smooth away the creases before she heads to the porch.

As she reaches the door, a car pulls up into the drive. Before the vehicle can be shut off by the driver, one of the back doors open. Even though it is impossible for him to grow any taller, James Davenport’s shadow looms even larger now. He holds his arms out and announces, “The prodigal son returns!”

Momma wraps her son up in her arms and sways him back and forth. She runs her fingers through James’s floppy brown hair and coos at him. “My baby boy! Sweet angel!”

Pop closes in behind them, but stands back just enough to be a part of the reunion without directly participating in it. As her parents focus on their eldest son, Ruth watches two more figures exit the car. The other one that exits the back is a gangly thing, his hair so blonde that the light of the sun almost gives him a bright white halo. The driver, on the other hand, has dark brown hair and a widow’s peak. He’s the shortest of the boys, but only by one or two inches.

Ruth already likes them for their blue eyes. Not that there was anything wrong with brown eyes. James and Momma both had brown eyes, and Betty had brown eyes. But she and Pop had blue eyes, and in her mind, there is an instantaneous code of friendship and honor with blue eyes.

She marches up to them and holds out her hand. “I’m Ruth Davenport!”

The blonde one looks down at her. His smile is shy, and she definitely likes that. “Hello.”

Ruth takes the shy one’s hand and shakes it the way she’s seen her father do it. Firm grip and bouncing it once, then twice. “Hello! I’m James’s sister.”

The dark-haired one smirks at her. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” She takes his hand too, but she’s yanked back when two strong arms wrap around her and whirl her away.

“C’mere, you!” James says. He lets go and the force is just enough for her to stumble to her knees. As she gets up, her white dress is stained with dirt and yellow-green streaks from the grass.

“Sorry, Ruthie! Mom, Pop, these are the friends I’ve been telling you about: Morgan Oswell and Willard McGill. Fellas, these are my parents and—well, this one’s already played hostess.”

“You were taking too long,” Ruth snaps back.

“Ruth!” Momma gasps, hand pressed to her chest. “What happened to your dress? Oh my goodness, Hal, help the boys with their things. Ruth and I have to salvage this dress. Come with me, young lady.”

Ruth’s nostrils flair as her mother bustles past her. She’s about to follow when she hears James call out, “Hey.”

As Ruth turns, she’s enveloped in her brother’s embrace. She’s horribly short anyway, but James hides her with his long torso and gangly limbs. His chin digs into the top of her head, and she can hear his heartbeat. _Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump._ She’s sure that the heartbeat is the best sound in the world. James Davenport has the best heartbeat and the best hugs.

Then he leans forward and whispers, “It’s an ugly dress anyway, I did you a favor.”

Ruth punches his upper arm and laughs at the way he curses, “Jeezus—!”

* * *

“How’s the university, Pop?“

“I still have a job.”

“That’s something to drink to!”

James and Pop clink their glasses together, adding to the symphony of forks scraping against plates and chewing of meat and bread. Ruth observes her parents and the way they interact with James and the other boys. Her older brother is a full six years older than she is, which means that his friends are most likely the same age. She is outnumbered by adults, but she’s still not sure when James became one. One day they were playing together and reading together, and then suddenly he’s old enough to drive away to Illinois and look for work. She does the math in her head about how old he was when Pop put him behind the wheel of their family car. Fifteen? Would Pop be teaching her to drive soon? Would she be able to work and earn money for her own car? 

“The College of Agriculture is what everyone is after,” Pop says, rolling his eyes at the very thought of learning about cows. “But it seems like history is still considered valuable. Not valuable enough for my original wage, but...”

“I’ve been sending you money, old man!” James scoffs.

“Just because they cut my wages doesn’t mean I’m completely helpless. And I’ve been keeping it in a jar for you when you want to go to college, or when you get married and buy a house.”

James laughs. “Two out of three of those things are possible, and I’m not gonna tell you which one.”

“I wish you’d get an education,” Pop begs.

“I want to go to college!” Ruth tells him. Her smiles at her, but doesn’t say anything. She can feel Momma’s eyes glaring at her interruption, but James distracts her with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. _You should_ , he mouths.

Ruth turns her attention to his two friends. She’s already memorized their names by pretending they are knights of the round table. Willard the Shy. Morgan the Dark, or Morgan the Mischievous—she still can’t decide. Willard the Shy smiles at her in the same way one smiles at a friend’s little sister. Morgan the Dark or Mischievous smiles at her in a similar manner, but she feels more respect from him rather than politeness.

“So do all three of you work at the factory?” Pop asks.

James answers, talking around his food rather than taking a moment to swallow it. “Morgan and I work there. Willard here works with his dad at a small shop around the corner.”

“Still in business after everything?”

“We were really lucky,” Willard replies, his voice oh-so-quiet. “A lot of shops around us had to close, but my father has been doing what he can for the community while trying to keep us afloat.”

Momma jumps in. “How did your paths cross, then?”

“Mass,” James answers.

“Oh good!”

“Smart boy to bring witnesses,” Pop smirks.

“This one”—James points to Morgan—“is the reason I go. Every time the doors are open, Morgan is there.”

“My faith is very important to me,” Morgan explains. “Speaking of higher education, Mr. Davenport, I’ve actually been considering seminary.”

Ruth frowns. _Maybe not so dark or mischievous_.

“Willard makes sure I’m at mass, too,” James continues. “We first saw him hiding in the back week after week, and one day and decided we needed to pester him.”

The shy blonde’s head ducks between his shoulders, and his cheeks flush pink. “It was kind of them to talk to me,” he says.

“If you ever want to trade up on sons, get yourself some good-hearted Catholic boys, you can take your pick from Morgan or Willard!”

“Never, James,” Momma says. “I worked very hard for you.”

Ruth clears her throat. “Momma, Betty asked me about going to the river tomorrow for a swim.”

“No, your brother just got home after months of being away. You’ll have to tell Betty you’re busy.”

“The boys and I were actually thinking about a swimming trip!” James leans over his plate and wears his sweetest smile. His bangs flop over brow and his eyes glow like melted chocolate. “We can look after the girls and have fun at the same time. Besides, this gives you plenty of time for that surprise you’re planning.”

“I am not planning—” Momma stops when James lifts one eyebrow. Ruth isn’t sure what is happening, but Momma and James have a silent conversation with a few seconds of looks. “Alright. But be back in time for supper.”

James turns his attention to his little sister and winks. She winks at him in return. It’s nice to have someone at home on her side.

* * *

Ruth pushes her wet hair back and climbs out of the water and onto the bank. She breathes heavily, exhausted from however long she had spent kicking her feet and spinning her arms through the river. Time gets lost in the water—what seems like hours turns out to only be minutes, and yet the sun always seems to set too soon. She looks down at her navy swimsuit and it has dampened to an almost black color. But if she tilts her body a certain way, the daylight creates a blue glint in the stretchy fabric.

Swarms of people splash and play about, including James and Betty. Her friend was deeply in love with James, had been since they were ten. For the last year, Betty would coyly ask, “How is James doing in... Chicago? Oh, Cicero! Yes, you told me that. How could I forget? I’m sure he must be awfully lonely.”

Now he was carrying Betty and her new curves on his shoulders, playing a game of chicken with another boy and his younger brother. Betty’s yellow ringlets were now plastered to her cheeks, and her joyful screams echoed across Madison. _She will never be this happy again_ , Ruth tsks. 

Ruth trudges up and finds Willard sitting with their picnic basket and their towels. He wears a sleeveless white shirt and a pair of red trunks that have not touched water all day. Instead, he holds charcoal in one hand and paper in the other, scribbling and scratching away. She grabs a towel and moves to stand over him. In shades of black and gray, Willard had sketched the landscape and the river, tiny shadows swimming and playing, practice drawings of strong noses and hands decorate the corner. But Ruth’s heart flutters a little bit when she notices he has not dated or signed the paper, but gray fingerprints he has left behind accidentally mark his work.

Humility on top of shyness and sweetness. Does Cicero hide all of the sweetest boys?

Ruth congratulates him. “That’s a good drawing!”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Will you draw me?”

“Um, I suppose I could—”

“You don’t have to do it now,” she babbles. _Don’t be frightened of me, Willard the Shy!_ “I just wanted to ask if you will. In the future, when you’re ready.

He smiles at her, and this time it’s genuine instead of polite. “I can do that.”

The sound of footsteps pull their attention away from their new friendship. Morgan approaches them and he grabs a towel from the ground, rubbing the rough material over his face and then ruffling his hair with it. Ruth’s cheeks burn from the sight of his bare chest and stomach and a grin tugs at her lips. She likes boys very much.

“Do you do anything, Morgan?” she asks. “Like Willard’s drawings?”

“I am woefully untalented. I can clap on rhythm, that’s about it.”

She turns her attention back to the river at the sound of scream and a splash. Betty holds her arms above her head while James crows beneath her. The brothers swim up, losers of whatever game they played, wiping water out of their eyes and gasp for air like codfish. 

She sits next to Willard, leans in so that she can whisper conspiratorially.

“You know, James and I are great friends. But we’re also brother and sister, which means sometimes we’re great enemies. So, I thought we should form an alliance and you can be my spy for pranks. What do you think, Willard?”

Willard grimaces. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at pranks.”

“Oh! That’s alright. Maybe not pranks, then. You can still annoy him though! I can tell you things that will make him mad. Not mean mad, but... deliciously peeved. For example: If you really want to make him grumble, you should call him ‘Jimmy.’”

“Why do you want to make your brother mad?”

Ruth blinks. “Because it’s funny.”

“It is pretty funny,” Morgan says, confirming her statement. “Willard here is an only child. He doesn’t understand the joy of torturing siblings like we do.”

“James gets me back by calling me ‘Ruthie.’” She makes a face as if she bit her hundredth lemon. “I like nicknames, but I think they’re stupid for one syllable names. James just hates ‘Jimmy’ because he says it makes it sound like he’s a little boy!”

Ruth nudges Willard with her shoulder, and he sways a bit from the impact. “Speaking of nicknames, can I call you ‘Will?’ Not that it’s your fault, but ‘Willard’s’ sort of dull for a name. ‘Will’ is a fun name. And I think you’re fun and nice.”

“Um,” he stutters. “Sure.”

She looks at Morgan, now sitting a few feet away from them. He plays with a blade of grass between his fingertips. “What about you? Can I give you a fun nickname? Like ‘Morg,’ or ‘Ossie?’”

He scrunches his nose, pretends like he’s considering it. “Hmmm... you know, I like my name fine. But thank you.

She smirks at him. “I might call you ‘Ossie’ anyway.”

“I’ll make you a deal: You can call me ‘Ossie,’ but I get to call you ‘Ruthie.’”

Her mouth drops, and Morgan has the audacity to wink at her. _The betrayal!_ Ruth ponders how such a devil—a handsome devil, too—can be interested in seminary. _A juxtaposition_. “Fine...” she concedes. Then she crosses her eyes and makes his name sound like a fart. “Morrrr-Gann Oz-Well!”

Both Willard and Morgan laugh, and it’s the second best sound in the world.

After dropping Betty off at her house, Ruth and her boys arrive back at her house before supper. She can see Momma sneaking a look through the curtain before running away. As they enter the door, Momma and Pop are in front of them with a candlelit cake.

“Happy birthday, son!”

“No!” James exaggerated shock, grabs his chest and places. “What a surprise! What a shock! It’s almost like it was planned weeks ago.”

James feigns a faint, falling back against each friend before putting his full weight on his sister. Ruth squeals, his shirt still somewhat damp from his swim. She wraps her arms around him and they both topple to the floor together, laughing on the way down.

* * *

**_Albuquerque, NM - Summer 1998_ **

Jimmy McGill stands in baggage claim and watches the carousel go around and around. His feet are in the desert while his mind is back in Berwyn, sitting inside a doctor’s office and trying to make sense of what she was saying. Chuck sent him on a quest, but there was nothing to save. Jimmy was only there to witness, and now there’s a dragon on the loose.

A flash of color on the wheel pulls him out of his thoughts. He pushes past a clearly hungover college student and a businesswoman, muttering “sorry” and “excuse me” as he wrestles his bright blue suitcase off of the wheel. The hungover kid tries to get in front of him, but Jimmy holds his arm out as an aged bag covered in a faded floral pattern makes his way to him. He heaves it over with a grunt and sets it next to his own case.

“Jimmy!” 

Jimmy looks up and sees his older brother walking his way, interspersing his movement with a quick jog that his knees can’t handle anymore. 

“Chuck! Thought you’d be idling in the car.”

“Rebecca went to park.”

Jimmy laughs at that. What was Rebecca doing here? Why would she pay $15 for thirty-minute parking? _Rich people_ , he bemoans.

“She could just drive around the airport,” Jimmy suggests. “We’re not going to be in here that long, and there’s no use in paying parking.”

Chuck shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“So, she’s coming in?”

“Um, no, she’s not. She’s going to wait in the car.”

Jimmy tightens his lips, blocking the words that want to spill out of his mouth. Chuck McGill is still in his suit at nine o’clock at night, which means he was most likely at the office working until he absolutely had to leave. He had insisted that he would pick Jimmy up from the airport, but Jimmy did not expect his sister-in-law to serve as their driver. And he has a feeling Rebecca wasn’t expecting that either.

“So,” Chuck starts. “Where is she?”

“Bathroom.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges. He pauses for a moment and looks for signs of her. But then his older brother couldn’t help himself. “Restroom, technically. For something to be a ‘bathroom,’ there needs to be a bath in there.”

Jimmy nods. “Good to know. I might win Trivial Pursuit with that one.”

“You couldn’t talk her out of coming?”

“Trust me, I tried. She was insistent. Like, almost Shirley MacLaine ‘give my daughter the shot’ insistent. I told her I’d probably be flying in again around Christmas, and she said, ‘I might be dead then.’ And she booked herself a ticket.”

“Some things never change. And I suppose now’s as good a time as ever to sit down with her. Get her affairs in order while she’s still—”

“Right,” Jimmy interrupts. Then he spots her, taps Chuck’s arm quickly. “Thar she blows, Cap’n.”

The brothers watch an old woman waving her arm at them. Her dark red hair has dulled now that she’s seventy-two, but when the light hits it in a certain way, the red shine from her youth blazes. She walks to them as quickly as her legs can carry her, hobbling only a bit as Ruth Marion McGill makes her way to her sons.

She wraps herself tightly around Chuck, and giggles, “Hello, you!”

“Hi, Mom.” Chuck pats her back with a barely there touch. As if too much affection can break her. She pulls back and wraps her other arm around her youngest, presses her head against his arm. 

“Look at us. The whole family back together again. Well, what’s left of it.”

Jimmy chuckles at the joke, but then he peeks at Chuck through his periphery. His brother shakes his head and his face is somber. _Don’t laugh at that. It’s not funny anymore._

Ruth pulls away and claps her hands together. A bracelet composed of plastic pearls rattles against a thin gold wristwatch. “Alright, boys! Grab my bag and let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m planting seeds, and we’ll see how they grow.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. The Green Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The car rolls forward. As it gains momentum, Ruth’s feet move of their own accord. She races after them, laughing as she chases after her boys. The distance between them grows and grows, and she huffs and puffs for air. She stumbles to a stop, catching her breath as she watches summer drive away.”_
> 
> The end of childhood draws near for Ruth McGill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello, history research coming into play!

_**Albuquerque, NM - Summer 1998** _

Jimmy watches his mother as she stares up at the desert sky, her eyes shifting between each star as if she were connecting dots. A memory breezes by of the two of them star gazing behind their little Berwyn house, creating their own constellations. 

“Oh my god, I love this heat!” Ruth sighs. “I don’t know why you three insisted on flying up to see me during holidays. This is paradise to me—an eternal summer.”

“Maybe _we_ were trying to escape the heat!” Rebecca jokes.

“It does snow here, Mom,” Chuck corrects. “Up in the mountains.”

“Then you could have taken me to a mountain!”

Chuck tries to usher Ruth toward the front door of his house, but she wanders further into the yard, unwilling to leave the night just yet. He pauses to glance down at his watch and looks back at his little brother. “Jimmy, it’s 9:30, are you going to need a ride home?”

Jimmy checks his watch to confirm the time. The second hand spasms as it creeps toward 9:31. “The bus stop is a twelve minute walk from the house. I can probably catch the last stop of the night. Besides, you’re home, and I don’t want to put you out.”

“Speaking of which, Chuck,” Ruth interjects. “I really don’t mind staying at a hotel. I know how much you like your space.”

Chuck shakes his head, his smile congenial. “No, Mom. I don’t want you to pay for a room when you have a free one here.”

Ruth hums, “Okay then. I suppose since Jimmy is off, then this old bird should be going to bed.”

“Are you actually going to fall asleep?” Jimmy asks her.

“Pfft! Oh no!” Ruth laughs. “You know I don’t sleep—I turn to stone when the clock strikes midnight. It’s a deal I made with the Devil to look as young as I do.”

Jimmy smiles and wraps his arms around his mother. Ruth hugs him tight, as if he might float into the sky if she let him go. But her hold is not as strong as it used to be. Now he wonders if he should hold her tighter. Would that keep her here longer?

She pats his back and pulls back, her blue eyes glowing. “Oh! Let’s all go out for breakfast tomorrow!”

“Um, that would be great, Mom,” Chuck says. “But it’s the middle of the week, we have to go to work. Especially since Jimmy has missed a few days to fly up to see you.”

Ruth’s blue eyes and smile dim. “Oh. I guess I should have thought of that. Well, then.”

“Maybe this Saturday, though?” Jimmy suggests.

Chuck’s eyes squint, his head bouncing back and forth as he scans the schedule in his head. “Yes, this Saturday I could probably manage. I may need to go into the office after, but breakfast sounds great.”

Rebecca loops her hand under Ruth’s elbow, linking arms with her mother-in-law. “Well, I have the morning free, if you’d still like to have breakfast tomorrow.”

Ruth smiles and pats Rebecca’s hand. “That sounds like a beautiful start to this small vacation,” she affirms.

The two women chat and giggle as they walk into the house arm in arm. Chuck stands back and watches them go with a tight-lipped smile. As soon as they are over the doorway, the facade falls and the older McGill looks exhausted from the effort of holding it together.

Jimmy swallows. “You okay?”

And just like that, the wall goes back up.

“I’m fine,” Chuck lies with a measured expression. “You should get going.”

Jimmy endures silence for seven whole minutes. Street lamps give the sidewalk an orange glow and cars zoom past with white headlights. His skin looks ghostly with every passing car, enveloped in an ethereal light that makes him think of movies right as the main characters die or are cast into the afterlife. It gives approach of death more of a climax, more of a sudden excitement than the slow slog it actually is.

When he reaches Lomas, the silence gets to be too much. It weighs heavier on his body than the luggage he carries. He reaches a payphone and digs into his pockets for quarters to feed the small slot. The coins jingle as they fall into the small abyss and he listens for the dial tone.

He punches in a set of numbers, the silver buttons roughened from years of use. He counts the number of rings that go through before the phone picks up. One... Two... Three.

“Hello?”

Jimmy smiles at the sound of her voice. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Wow, you’re back sooner than I expected.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, Kim, but my middle name is ‘Unexpected.’”

He hears Kim Wexler’s snort through the phone. “So that ‘M’ in ‘James M. McGill’ is just decorative?”

“Nah, ‘Unexpected’ starts with an ‘M.’ C’mon, Kim, this is basic elementary school education.” Jimmy looks down at his watch, and the clock hands spasm into 9:45pm. “Hey, can you come pick me up? I’m on Lomas and 19th. I’m not gonna make the bus in time.”

“I was about to go to sleep, Jimmy.”

He sighs. “Sorry. I’ll call a cab or something.”

There’s a pause. Time is running out on the call. Something must have given him away because she says, “I’ll be right there. Wait at the bus stop so I can find you.”

 _Click_. No goodbye. No questions about whether or not he’s okay. That will come later. She’ll ask him what happened in Berwyn. Words will spill out of his mouth because his feelings and the truth had nowhere else to go for three days. Then she’ll drive him up to the Beachcomber and ask if he needs anything. He’ll tell her ‘no,’ and she’ll let the lie go and tell him goodnight.

Until then, Jimmy McGill hefts his bag up and walks, the orange lamplight placing him in various spotlights as the night grows darker.

* * *

**_Madison, WI - Summer 1941_ **

Ruth stands hopelessly to the side, watching Pop help Morgan and Willard load the car with their bags. Her big brother and his friends will be making the trek back to Cicero after another short summer weekend. She had offered to help, anything to be as involved in their lives as possible before they left. But Pop said that it was “men’s work.” 

_Whatever that means_ , she thinks. _It’s not as if I’ve never lifted a bag before._

And yet the one man not helping was having a quiet conversation with Momma. The sunrise casts a pinkish hue on her mother’s white apron, and it provides a contrast to the thick green paper in her hands. Ruth listens closely, yearning to be a part of something.

“James, no—”

Momma tries to hand the money back, but James gently pushes it away.

“Yes,” he insists. “I didn’t move to Cicero just to make money for myself. Make sure Pop doesn’t stick it in that damn jar.”

Ruth watches as her mother tries to form the right words, her persona of certainty and stolidness melting away under stutters. Momma gives up and hugs James tightly to her. He looms over her, rests his head on top of hers.

“Thank you, son,” she sighs.

James pulls back and smiles. “I’ll see you again, soon.”

Momma nods and turns away just in time. No one is allowed to see Momma cry, especially not her children. Ruth feels her finger twitch from the instinct to wipe away tears she would never touch.

James wanders over to Ruth, lips pursed together and arms across his back. His midsection is open for attack. The devil on her shoulder squeals, _Tickle him! Punch him! Tackle him and blow bubbles into his belly!_

“I won’t be seeing you again until Christmas,” he says. “You better stay out of my room until then.”

Ruth sniffs at him, a smirk curling at one corner of her mouth. “You don’t live here anymore. Besides, you’re not that interesting.”

His eyebrows raise, white teeth bare in a Cheshire Cat grin. “Sounds like Ruthie doesn’t want a birthday present.”

She sneers. _Ruthie._ She is fifteen, almost sixteen, and she’s tired of this childish game. So she whines, “You aren’t going to be here for my birthday anyway!”

“I’ll be here at Christmas!”

“My birthday is February 1st, Christmas is December 25th. Presents given at Christmas are still Christmas presents.”

“Then I could send you something.”

“Like what, a _telephone_?”

James and Morgan have been working at Hawthorne Works for almost two years now. Day in and day out, they work the lines and telephones are shipped out to stores and businesses. A sea of shadowed faces doing the work while big companies took the credit, stamped their names on the bottom of each phone. The companies take the biggest cut while people like James send their small portions to their families.

“Maybe! A telephone all your own that you can use to call anyone in the world. Including your favorite brother.”

Ruth rolls her eyes. “ _Only_ brother.”

“Which makes me even more important! And you wouldn’t have to wait for a letter to hear from me. You wouldn’t have to beg Momma to use the phone. A telephone all your own with the world at your finger tips. But… only if you’re nice to me and stay out of my room.”

Ruth digs her hands in as she considers James’s words. Deep in the pockets of her overalls, a thread is loose. And while she thinks, she rubs the thread between her fingers. She pulls at it a little, and there is some resistance. One day she’ll pull too hard, though. And the seam will rip open and someone would have to fix it.

Betty’s mother, Mrs. Tillerson, knows how to sew. It would be easier to call someone that likes your company rather than relying on Momma to reluctantly help her daughter. _That_ was the real gift.

“Fine,” she acquiesces. She likes that word. _Acquiesces._ It makes her feel mature and queenly. 

Ruth holds out her hand, ready to shake and make a deal out of it. James wraps his fingers around her hand and yanks her into him. She crashes into him and her head collides with his chest, and an “ _oof_ ” escapes her lips on impact. Then his arms are around her and warmth travels through Ruth from head to toe. The chill of the morning fades away as the summer sun slowly travels higher in the sky. James Davenport is about to leave and take the warmth of summer with him.

“Goodbye, you,” he says.

“Goodbye, you!” she repeats.

He smashes his lips into her hair for a kiss, and tussles it more with his hand. Ruth grabs for her poor red hair that is now tangled from his brotherly affection. How long she had brushed and formed it into the perfect braid! And now little tufts of hair frizzed and bumped on top of her head.

Pop shakes the hands of Morgan and then Willard. “Make sure that boy of mine stays out of trouble. Willard, my condolences again for your loss.”

Willard nods his head and smiles solemnly. “Thank you, sir.”

“We’ve gotta get going. Thank you again for the weekend, Mr. Davenport” Morgan opens the driver’s side door. Willard climbs into the back, but James is still standing by his little sister. So the driver of the first shift honks his horn. “C’mon, _Jimmy_!”

James’s mouth spreads into a thin line, and his frustrated gaze shifts to his little sister. Ruth looks at him with innocent blue fire eyes. He exacts his revenge by capturing her and blowing a raspberry kiss into her cheek. The sound harmonizes with the starting of the engine, but the vibration in her cheek makes her squeal.

“Ahhh! Get off of me!” Ruth screams.

James jogs to the car, giving the family one last wave before he ducks into the front passenger seat. Momma and Pop stay where they are, not touching as they witness their departure. Ruth wants to be closer. She skips to the car and touches the driver’s side window. Morgan’s concentration softens into a sweet smile. He winks at her, and flushed cheeks accompany her smile. They only burn more red when Willard waves at her through the back window. James leans over Morgan and flicks at the window. The crack of his fingernail against the pane makes her jolt back away from the car.

The car rolls forward. As it gains momentum, Ruth’s feet move of their own accord. She races after them, laughing as she chases after her boys. The distance between them grows and grows, and she huffs and puffs for air. She stumbles to a stop, catching her breath as she watches summer drive away.

* * *

**_Madison, WI - Winter 1941_ **

“Now _two_ of them want to be priests?”

“Seems like it,” Ruth sighs. “At least according to James’s most recent letter.”

Betty flops onto her bed dramatically. She had invited Ruth over to work on homework. Momma agreed to it since Ruth’s grades in arithmetic have been slipping. Of course, what Momma doesn’t know is “homework” is trying on dresses that don’t fit Betty anymore. 

Ruth examines herself in the mirror, thick blue lines running vertically up and down the fabric. It’s a summer dress, something she most definitely can’t wear now that snow covers the ground. But it had looked so nice on Betty until her bosom and hips decided to grow out just a little bit more. Surely Ruth would look just as nice!

She scrunches her nose at its effects on her figure. She had developed the slightest curve to her chest and hips since the previous summer, but these lines hid them with ease. _Flat, flat, flat._

“Surely they can’t be serious about it,” Betty argues. “I mean, they're both so handsome. It seems like such a waste.”

“Will’s mother just died, so he’s surely feeling lost more than anything. Morgan seems more serious about it,” Ruth observes. “Honestly, I’m not sure what would be worse: becoming a priest, or running a boring old shop your whole life. And Will’s so talented! How can you want to be a priest when you can be a famous artist like Norman Rockwell or Monet or something?”

Betty giggles. “James must be such a heathen that he runs everyone to the church.”

“Says the one that’s in _love_ with him.”

“I’m not in _love_ with him. I might have thought I was at one point, but that was just lust.”

“I don’t see the difference between lust and love.”

“There is a difference, ask your priest friends. Besides…” Betty smiles as her thoughts shift. “I’m with Fred now and after we graduate from high school, we’re going to get married and have tons of babies.”

Ruth hums in acknowledgment. Fred Saffron is one of the oldest boys in their classroom, a whole four months older than Ruth. He’s not unattractive, but his face and body does not appeal to Ruth. Thinner than a string bean and taller than a tree. Too much like James, which is probably why Betty finds fancy in him. He and Betty had been going together for two months now, passing love letters in classes and holding hands.

 _Holding hands_ . Ruth’s back tenses at the thought of it. She remembers sitting on the floor of her father’s classroom, a nine-year-old girl curious about _The Works of William Shake-Speare_. The text was illustrated in black and white facsimiles, and she found one of two young lovers wearing masks and fingertips brushing. She read the lines, fascinated by the jumble of antiquated English language. The words “palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss” imprinted upon her mind and she had to ask Pop what it meant.

 _“They’re pressing their palms together in the same way we pray at church,”_ Pop explained, as if it was nothing. _“Juliet is saying that it’s like her hand and Romeo’s are kissing.”_

Those words follow her now when she sees couples or children on the streets holding hands. Somehow it’s much more intimate to her than actual kisses or hugs. The acceptance of its public display confounds her. She wonders if Momma and Pop have that same distaste for public displays of affection—they barely look at each other even in her company.

Ruth strips off the striped dress, standing in her shift. Betty reads from her book as the muffled sound of the radio downstairs resonates in the walls. A green dress is next in the pile of unwanted clumps of clothing. Ruth picks it up and holds it to her body. It’s as green as the Emerald City, and it’s almost like the color is kindling for the red in her hair. For the first time, she notices little flecks of green in her eyes like lily ponds in water.

“Hm. What do you think of this one?” she asks.

Betty looks up and an excited gasp escaped her. “Oh, absolutely! I don’t know why Mommy ever bought that for me, that green makes me look sickly. But it seems perfect for you! And it will make the red in your hair even more radiant. Maybe it was just meant to land in your hands.”

Ruth pulls it over her head. The fit is not exactly perfect, but Mrs. Tillerson could make it so. The hemline hits just below the knee, and the puffed sleeves make her scrawny shoulders look refined. But she is most enchanted by the neckline that dips down and stops right above her cleavage. Momma insists that her clothes be buttoned to the top button, collars closed tight that almost choke her with prudishness.

 _I look like a woman_ , she realizes. She smiles as slides her hands down the soft material of her skirt. _A woman._

“Gosh, your hair is beautiful,” Betty admires. “Sometimes I think about dying mine red. Maybe even bolder red than yours!”

“Don’t you dare! Your hair is gorgeous. Everyone can tell when someone has blonde hair in the movies. If someone’s hair is red or brown, it becomes a muddy, dark gray mess.”

“I’d love to see hair like yours in technicolor. The way it catches the light… You should become a famous actress so that the world can see your hair in technicolor!”

Ruth giggles. “Maybe I will! And I’ll fall in love with James Stewart, and we’ll drive fancy cars with and I’ll insist that my best friends Betty and Katharine Hepburn come, too!”

“Do you suppose Katharine Hepburn has red hair? You look like her.”

“I do not, my nose is too big.”

“Maybe you just remind me of her, then. An air of Katharine. It’s preferable, I think, to be like somebody and not just look like somebody,” she sighs. “The other day Fred said I look like Jean Harlow. But I’m much more like Joan Fontaine in _Rebecca_ , all shy and nervous.”

“Yes, you’re so shy and nervous,” Ruth repeats sarcastically. “Flirting with my brother and Fred is a front for all that shyness.”

“You’re one to talk! I still don’t know how you haven’t had one yet. You’re so pretty, you can have any boy you like.”

“Momma says I’m too young to be alone with a boy.”

“You’re sixteen!”

“In one month and twenty-five days! Not that anyone’s counting.”

Betty tsks at her. “Ruth, you don’t _tell_ your parents you have a beau! That’s rule number one of having a beau. Besides, you’re surrounded by handsome boys all the time whenever Will and Morgan are around. Your Momma doesn’t know how her own rules work.”

“Girls, come down!” Mrs. Tillerson’s voice calls to them from downstairs. But something in it sounds odd. Distant and distracted, wavering between her soft register and an unknown thing.

Betty groans before she yells back, “Mommy, we’re doing our homework!”

Mr. Tillerson responds, urgent and and loud enough to rattle the floor. “Elizabeth, get down here _now_!”

Betty and Ruth move quickly to the door, unsure of the discipline that awaits them but knowing that their punishment would be nothing compared to if they dawdled.

They descended the stairs and Mr. and Mrs. Tillerson are sitting together. They had pulled two chairs closer to the radio. Mrs. Tillerson leans forward, hands covering her mouth and tears stinging her eyes. 

“Are we in trouble?” Betty asks

The voice of the broadcast announcer speaks, but Ruth can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. 

“ _... Honolulu has also been… considerable damage..._ ”

Mr. Tillerson shakes his head. Not a confident “no.” It’s like he’s trying to shake his thoughts into place. Like he’s about to do something he might regret.

“Come here,” he says, his voice softer. His thick black eyebrows are curled into worried arches. “Sit next to me and your mother.”

Then Ruth hears the broadcaster say something she can understand. 

“ _It is no joke_ ,” the disembodied voice crackles. “ _It is a real war_.”

In a trance, Ruth moves in front of Betty, tentative in her steps before she sits down on the floor. Her skirt billows just a bit as she crosses her legs under her. Betty follows and sits next to her. They look to each other, and Ruth notices how Betty’s blonde curls bounce as she twists her attention between her parents and Ruth. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth sees Mr. and Mrs. Tillerson grasp each other’s hands.

The broadcast continues. “ _There has been serious fighting going on in the air and in the sea. The heavy shooting seems to be . . . a little interruption. We cannot estimate just how much damage has been done, but it has been a very severe attack._ ”

On Sunday, December 7, 1941, the emergency broadcasts details the attack on Pearl Harbor. Throughout the broadcast, Ruth becomes more aware that the emerald green dress that doesn’t quite fit. It’s too big, she’s not ready for it, she wants to go back to an hour before when she and Betty were giggling about beaus and movies.

Events jumble together: The phone rings and Mrs. Tillerson answers it. Ruth sits in Pop’s car as they drive through a snowy sunset. Eleanor Roosevelt broadcasts her own words, asks women and young people to prepare themselves. Momma and Pop sit on opposite sides of the radio, and Ruth stares directly at the speaker. The First Lady says that the President and Congress will announce something tomorrow.

When sleep eludes her, Ruth sits by the door of her room and listens to the shouting that keeps her up.

“You can’t ask the boy to leave his job, Margie.”

“He could be sent off to war!”

“He might not be! And then James will be unemployed and might feel like he _has_ to serve anyway.”

“I want my son to come home!”

Momma didn’t mention or fuss about her green dress when she walked through the front door. It lays tucked under her other clothes like a secret. She imagines what will happen if Momma finds it. It could be like when she brought home a necklace she traded at school. Voice raised, finger wagging, tears running down Ruth’s face as she promises to give it back.

Momma never mentions the green dress. She’s too busy raising her voice at James in their weekly phone conversations, begging her favorite child to come home. The indifference makes Ruth cry harder than her mother’s shouts ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and kind words so far! I love all of them. 🥰 Working on the next chapter as we speak.


	3. Lucky Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ruth looks at her brother. The earth below her crunches as she shifts her feet. In her periphery, Morgan turns his gaze downward and hides his hands in his trouser pockets._
> 
> _James takes a breath. “I got my notice from the draft board. I’m shipping out in July.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tuck in, this chapter is L O N G .
> 
> So, there’s a Benny Goodman song that isn’t directly referenced later. BUT, if you want ambiance, the cover of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” with Helen Forrest’s vocals is what I have in mind.

_**Summer 1998 - Albuquerque, NM** _

The clock on the side table tells her is 4:31am. On the other side of the door, down the stairs, someone’s day begins with the gurgle and sigh of a coffeemaker. But for Ruth McGill, she hears the countdown. _Tick, tick, tick._

The old woman sits on the edge of her bed the guest bedroom. _Guest_. No, Chuck and Rebecca clearly decorated the room with her in mind. She runs her fingers over the bright blue duvet that is almost uncharacteristic for their grand house. Her fingers trace along the embroidered pattern of florals and spots.

There are photographs and art pieces that are placed throughout the room, including a relatively large one of Ruth herself with her arms wrapped around Rebecca in her big white ballgown of a wedding dress. Both women are laughing at something, Rebecca leaning on her new mother-in-law for support in a state of hysterics. Chuck’s wife has such a calm and regal nature about her that it seems impossible to get her to crack. It is Ruth’s triumph that she wields that hammer and break her open into genuine smiles.

The room isn’t without its cruelty though. Next to the clock is a photograph of the McGill family when it was just her, Will and Chuck. The young girl in the photo holds a baby in her arms, a tired grin plastered on her face. Will had hated taking photos, but he looks into the camera lens with a tight-lipped smile. His hand is on her waist and she leans into his sweet awkwardness. One of her boys...

 _It could have been so different,_ she thinks to herself. She brushes her thumb over Will’s black-and-white cheek. Her thumb is comically large next to his head.

A new set of footsteps move past her door and fade as they move down below. Ruth waits a few seconds, and once she is sure no one is in earshot, she opens her bedroom window. The air is crisp, but she knows that the sun will take that away soon enough.

Ruth digs into her purse, her robe hanging open and exposing the hideous nightgown beneath. Once upon a time, her skin hugged her muscles and bones and her nightgowns were made of silk and thin shoulder straps exposed her chest and back. Now she must wear long-sleeved cotton nightdresses that hide her sagging, wrinkled skin.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Her fingers find the small cardboard box hiding inside and she pulls it out. Marlboros. She had been in a hurry when she bought them at the corner store. Jimmy had been waiting in the taxi while she pretended she had an emergency trip the ladies’ restroom. Her first pack of smokes in decades. The poor clerk looked at her like she’d gone daffy, and the flutter in her heart made her feel like she could be caught at any moment. Sixteen again.

She unwrapped the plastic and scrunched her nose. It wasn’t what she wanted. His favorite had been Lucky Strike. They had become hers, too.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she whispers. Her mind adds, _And I’m dying anyway, so who gives a shit?_

Ruth places a cigarette between her lips, her tongue accidentally touching the filter. She picks a match out of a small packet and strikes it. Nothing. She does it again, and nothing. Third time’s the charm as a _whickt_ catches and a tiny flame hangs on for its short life. She brings the match to the end of her cigarette and breaths in. The taste of smoke and tobacco and fire fills her throat and lungs. Flame feeds flame. She leans out of her window and blows smoke into the starry morning.

* * *

**_Summer 1942 - Madison, WI_ **

Momma doesn’t get her wish. James stays in Cicero with the factory and the telephone pieces he puts together in an assembly line. Instead, she’s stuck with a sixteen-year-old girl that climbs out of bedroom windows and stares at the nighttime stars.

Ruth rests her back against the roof, running her fingers along the rough edges of the shingles. The world is at war, but this part of it sees no bombings or battles in Madison. She’s seen photographs of other parts of the world. London and Paris and Italy devastated with ruin and smoke. She tries to imagine Madison like that—people screaming and planes flying overhead. Ducking under tables in hopes it would shield her from debris falling down on them like a rain composed of concrete and death.

But there are no clouds in the violet blue sky that glitters with stardust. Ruth traces a thumb along her side, imagines having someone next to her instead of finding affection in herself. Someone could be out there looking at the same sky and feeling lonely at the same time. It beats the alternative: people that know her by name and no one notices she’s missing.

In two weeks time, James will come home and he’ll be bringing along Morgan and Will. But even then, the attention she receives is not the attention she wants. Despite the world crumbling around them, despite the small curves finally settling into her body, she feels her family and her friends trying to freeze time. But Ruth has already fallen through the ice, and she is begging for warmth before she sinks down into the depths.

Her thumb tentatively slips underneath the thin fabric of her shirt, and she brushes the skin on her stomach. Ruth shivers and immediately withdraws from her own touch. _Sad, pathetic thing_ , she scolds herself. 

* * *

The car pulls up to the house on a Thursday afternoon in June. Pop and Momma stand where they are as Ruth runs to the parked car. Her boys are here! Her boys—

She stops when only two figures climb out. The sweet and shy boy is not in the backseat like he’s supposed to be. Morgan and James pull out their bags and she tries to squeeze between them. Her search reveals nothing: no one is asleep in the backseat or hiding or anything.

“Where’s Will?” Ruth asks.

Morgan answers first. “He, uh, didn’t come with us this time.”

She blinks. “Oh. Is he okay?”

“I’m sure he is,” James replies. There’s something beneath his tone that bites. But he’s still James and wears a smile as he says it.

His smile softens into something more somber as he steps toward Momma. He approaches her as he would an alley cat, and she reacts as such. The older woman’s body stiffens, and Ruth is fairly certain she can see the fair hair on her mother’s arms raise.

“James...?”  
  
“Let’s go inside, Momma,” he says. He reaches out to hug her, to lead her inside. She steps back.

“Just tell me what you need to say.”

“Momma, let’s just go where it’s cool.”

“I’m perfectly fine out here.”

James lets go of his even-keeled facade, his frustration darkens his brown eyes. “Please, Momma—”

Momma moves. Not toward the house, but away from it. She pushes past James’s towering frame, weaves between past Ruth and Morgan. She walks down the path in her house dress and heels, her figure growing smaller and smaller as she gets further and further away.

Pop speaks. “Son?”

Ruth looks at her brother. The earth below her crunches as she shifts her feet. In her periphery, Morgan turns his gaze downward and hides his hands in his trouser pockets.

James takes a breath. “I got my notice from the draft board. I’m shipping out in July.”

* * *

Breakfast the following morning is quiet. Knives and forks scratch and screech against plates, teeth gnash eggs and porridge and sausage. Momma pushes her food around with a fork, but never brings food to her lips. Ruth makes eye contact with James as he eats. He smiles at her and winks. Morgan sits on the other side of her brother, and he raises his eyebrows and grimaces. _Eek_ , he mouths before taking a sip of coffee. She presses her lips together to stop a laugh. 

“I’m thinking about taking Morgan out on the town tonight,” James says. “Have a bit of fun before we go back to Cicero on Sunday.”

“Before you ship out, you mean,” Momma corrects. They’re the first words out of her mouth since she returned from her escape last night. Ruth noticed that her mother walked in with bare feet, her shoes hanging off of two fingers. No one said anything of the cracked and bleeding skin on the back of her heels.

“I think that’s a fine idea, son,” Pop answers. “Sow your oats a bit.”

Ruth leans in toward her boys. She asks, “Can I come?” 

“No, Ruth,” Momma interjects. “You’re far too young.”

“I was asking James and Morgan.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. The acid in her voice burns her mouth, and Ruth’s eyes widen when she realizes what has happened. That acid melts Momma’s resolve, and mother stares at daughter like a bull ready to charge.

“I’m sorry,” Ruth murmurs.

Momma’s nostrils flare, but her words are cold. “Go to your room.”

“But, Momma—”

“ _Go to your room_!”

Ruth runs from the table. Eyes pierce holes into her back as she runs up the stairs and slams the door behind her. Tears fall down her cheeks, and she presses her forehead against the door. _I hate you_ , she wants to scream. _I hate you!_

She pushes her tears away with the back of her hand, breathes deeply and evenly. When the fire in her cooled, Ruth examined herself in the vanity. Her cheeks are pink with red splotches and her eyes glittered like crystal. _No_ , she thinks, _like ice_. Crystal is precious and protected. Ice can be broken with no care in the world. It can either melt into water and disappear into the earth, or reform only with a cold and frozen air.

 _But I’m not ice._ She runs her fingers through the curls at her shoulders. The morning light hits it just so and beneath strands of brown, it glows orange and red. I’m fire.

Ruth sweeps over to her chest of drawers and digs through fabric. She finds it: the green dress that belonged to Betty. The same one she wore on the day of the Pearl Harbor attacks. The same one Momma ignored because she was too busy crying about her favorite child and pleaded with James to come home.

She turns back to the vanity and presses it to her chest. The red in her cheeks are emphasized by the color, yes, but so is her hair and the green flecks in her eyes. Ruth smile burns bright.

* * *

Morgan starts the engine and it sputters to life. James claps his hands. “Alright!” he says. “We’re headed for Washington Avenue, Morgan.”

“Great idea, I don’t know where that is.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just follow the stench of booze.”

Morgan stares at his friend and blinks once. Twice.

“And my directions, yes, fine, of course,” James adds.

Morgan presses his foot against the gas, and the car moves forward. They don’t bother looking behind them to see that a second story window is propped open, that a rope comprised of sheets and clothings knotted together hangs from it. Then from the floor of the backseat, Ruth pops up.

“Hello, boys!”

James jumps at the sound of her voice. His eyes are wide chocolate disks in the dark. “Ruth! Morgan, stop the car!” The car stops and James turns enough to sit on his knees. He looks comical, his tall frame not giving him enough space between his head and the car roof. “Ruth, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“What? No!”

“C’mon, Jimmy!”

“Ruthie,” her brother chastised. “Get back inside before Momma tears your hide and mine!”

“Momma walked for five miles so that she wouldn’t have to cry in front of you! You’re immune.” She tilts her chin up and continues, “Besides, she’s already mad at me, so I might as well go dancing.”

James gapes at her, but he says nothing. Morgan watches her, too, but he looks more amused than surprised. It’s different, the way they both look at her. The closest she had seen to their expressions was when Pop took her to the carnival when she was seven. In a small tent, an audience surrounded one man in a top hat ask a girl from the audience to enter a wooden box painted with stars. She had to have been eighteen, maybe twenty. The girl walked in and the magician closed the door behind her. He walked around the box once, then knocked on the front door before he opened it.

The girl was gone. Disappeared in a moment while everyone watched.

* * *

“Excuse me,” a young man in a suit jacket asks. “That’s a nice dress. Would you like to dance?”

Ruth doesn’t even get the chance to take a breath before James cuts in.

“Sorry, I’ve got the next one.”

The young man lifts an eyebrow. “You just had the last one, though.”

James bobs his head up and down, smile and eyes frighteningly wide. “I know! It’s like I’m doing this on purpose!”

The young man backs away, his shoulder bumping into an older man and spilling his drink. The room is with noise from the loud music and the patrons trying to talk and laugh over it. A battle over who could be the loudest. Smoke from cigarettes fogged up the room like mist made of brimstone, and its smell combined with the sting of alcohol that filled almost everybody’s cup. It warms her lungs and she loves the heat of it.

Well, she would love it if her brother had not chosen this night to be a fuddy-duddy for the first time ever.

The first fifteen minutes had been fine as James led her out crowded floor and he spun her around. There wasn’t much room to dance in a carefree manner, but there was just enough for partners to swing and dip. But then other boys started to notice her. It was a bar that did not ask too many questions about her age as Morgan and her brother ushered her in. But nearly an hour in and five propositions later, James blockades every possible dance partner’s request, and she’s led back out onto the dance floor to make a point. They’ve probably started the newest craze: the Don’t-Touch-My-Baby-Sister Mambo.

“James, they just want to dance!” Ruth huffs.

“That’s not all they want to do,” James replies. “Besides, dancing with your older brother isn’t too bad.”

“Dancing with me, or guarding me like a sheepdog?”

He shrugs. “I can do two things. And you’re leading again.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. It’s awkward enough that her big brother is the only male dance partner she’s ever had. But he keeps trying to twist her hand so that their palms touch. Her right hand is curled in a loose fist, the back of it pressed against his grip. It doesn’t count as holy palmers’ kiss if their palms don’t touch.

“This would be easier if you’d actually take my hand,” he teases.

James briefly loses his focus on her, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. Ruth looks in that direction. It’s hard to notice the exact point of his attention in the smoke and the crowd. She sees a woman that seems shy and uncomfortable. A bit of a wallflower with straw colored hair and a brown dress. She doesn’t seem like someone James would be interested in. Then again, maybe she is. After all, he’s also best friends with Willard McGill.

Or he was, she reminds herself.

“Where’s Morgan?” she asks.

James ships his head back to her, suddenly remembering he has a sister. “Um... Outside, probably.”

“My feet need a rest. I’m going to look for him.”

James presses his lips together, looks between her and the unknown focus point. “Alright. But the moment you find him, stay with him and I’ll find you outside. Don’t come wandering back in and looking for one of these fellas to dance with! I’ve got eyes like an eagle.”

Ruth waves him off, and he waves back at her. He watched her go toward the door, and she smiles to herself. Maybe James Davenport has found romance before being shipped off to war. How tragic!

Her smile falters. Yes. How tragic.

* * *

Ruth finds Morgan leaning against the side of the brick wall. He sucks at the thin white cigarette in his mouth and exhales. The way he puckers his lips as he blows makes her think of her first kiss. It looks innocent enough, but she’s enchanted by the shapes and curls the smoke makes.

“I don’t think priests are supposed to smoke,” she tells him.

Morgan looks up to see her and smiles. He places the cigarette back in his mouth and a bright red-orange dot lights at the tip.

“Is that so?” he asks.

“Oh yes,” she insists, happy that he’s playing along with her. “It’s in Matthew, I think. The Devil tempted Jesus with a pack of cigarettes in the desert. You should hand them over to me. For the sake of your salvation.”

She holds out her hand, waits for him to fall for her trap. He squints his eyes, considering it for a moment. Then, “No.”

“But—”

He exhaled another plume of smoke before he throws it to the ground and flattens it into the earth. “For the sake of your a salvation.”

Ruth leans against the wall next to him. The bricks underneath her vibrate with music and laughter. But she has to admit that despite her love of fun and noise, there’s comfort to be had with Morgan Oswell and the quiet of night. She presses her head back against the wall and pulls down a little bit, the same way she’s seen starlets do in movies. The brick scrapes the back of her head, but maybe the pushed up mess of hair is worth it. She waits for Morgan to look at her like he did in the car, but this time with more affection. Tell her she’s beautiful in her green dress and ask her to dance before her brother comes back out to check on them.

“Also,” he says. “I’m not going to be a priest.”

Her brows knit together. “What? Why?”

Morgan looks up at the sky, not looking at her as he speaks. “Same reason as James.”

Her heart drops. “No... no, you were you drafted, too?”

He shakes his head. “I volunteered. Navy. It felt like the right thing to do. Like it’s my duty.”

“You should have said something! We were all so focused on James, and all this time—”

“It’s fine, Ruth. Really. And it might be a good thing! I met a chaplain when I registered. I asked him a few questions about what led him there and what his days usually look like.”

“Chaplin? Like, Charlie Chaplin?”

“ _A_ chaplain. A spiritual leader for soldiers. There are plenty of priests and rabbis and others that serve their country. And they’re non-combatant positions so—”

“So you’d be far away from the fighting.”

“That’s right. Only after I finish my theological studies, though. And I wouldn’t be able to start until...”

“Right,” she responds. “Is Will going?”

He shakes his head. “No, he has something that interferes with his health. I don’t remember what.”

“I wish Will were here. Is anyone going to tell me what happened?

“It’s not my story to tell,” Morgan answers.

“That makes it sound horrible.”

Morgan crosses over to her. He’s not as tall as James, but she’s a short thing. He’s tall enough that she can look up into his blue eyes as he parses whether or not he should tell her the whole truth. He chooses not.

“When your brother is ready to tell you what happened between them, he’ll tell you,” he assures. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll patch things up. They have before.”

Ruth’s eyes widen. “This has happened before!”

The sound he makes is a laugh mixed with an exasperated groan. “Oh yes. Oil and water, those two.”

Ruth hums in agreement. “That’s true. Will is very different from most of James’s friends. He’s so quiet and good.”

Morgan lifts an eyebrow and his mouth quirks upward. “And I’m not?

Her cheeks flush so hard that even with the dark of night, she covers them with both hands. Then the conversation inside dies down and a slow song plays on the jukebox. “Oh, I love this song!”

Morgan waves at her. “Go back inside. I’ll be fine.”

He begins to take out a pack of cigarettes—a small dented box with a big red circle and “Lucky Strike” in the center. But she stops him by taking one large step and their noses almost touch. “No, goose! I want _you_ to dance with me.”

Morgan takes a step back, but he places the cigarettes back in his pocket. “No, no, no. You overestimate my dancing abilities.”

“You said once that you can clap on rhythm.”

He looks confused. Does he not remember? Or is he surprised that she does? “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Then you can sway on rhythm!”

Ruth grabs onto his wrists and rearranges them so that one hand is on her hip and the other is on top of her closed fist. Back of her hand to his palm. She sways on one foot and Morgan copies her. Then the other foot. And again and again until they have found an rhythm as trumpets and clarinets sing together.

“This is my first night dancing with a boy that isn’t James,” she giggles. “I’m usually doing the foxtrot with Betty at school.”

“No one would know it. You’re very graceful. I can also tell that you do most of the leading. No, don’t make that face, I didn’t mean it like that. Trust me, I appreciate it—have no idea what I’m doing.”

She nods, smiles at his reassurance. But his comment makes her think of the brother she left inside. The same one that had monopolized all her dances, demanded that he be her partner in every single one. Perhaps he wasn’t just protecting her. The way he teased and joked, but still brought her out with him despite the trouble she’d be in when she got home. She thought about how Morgan didn’t even bother bringing his enlistment up at all. And poor Will...

One by one, her boys are disappearing. And she doesn’t know when she’ll see them again. _If_ , the Devil in her whispers. _If ever see them again_.

“You’ll be looking out for James, won’t you?” she asks Morgan. “While you’re at war. Make sure he stays safe.”

Morgan’s blue eyes glitter in the dark, and he sighs. “Ruth, I’m sorry. I’m going to be based at sea. James is in the army, he’ll be in the trenches.”

A woman’s voice begins to sing on the jukebox, but Ruth can’t hear it over her worry. “I don’t like the thought him alone,” she says. James doesn’t do well on his own.”

“He’ll be okay,” he soothes.

“I don’t like the thought of you alone, either.”

Morgan doesn’t answer that. The expression on his face is mixture of things and she can’t quite pinpoint the emotion at the center. Endearment? Confusion? Fearful? But he continues to sway with her, dance with her and let her control how they turn.

Ruth licks her lips as she considers something. _No one but Betty knows_ , she thinks, _so this will be something all for her_. This embarrassing, secret thing that is so important to her. And the boy in front of her is worthy of it. She turns her hand and opens her fist. Her palm touches Morgan’s in holy palmers’ kiss. And as they sway, she prays to God as his fingers gently wrap around her hand.

_Don’t let them die. Don’t let them die. Don’t let them die._

* * *

When James and Morgan brought her home that Friday night after their dancing, Momma and Pop were waiting. Pop admonished the boys softly, but Momma’s stern face twisted into a hideous angry mask for her daughter alone. As always.

Sunday morning, Momma lets Ruth come out of her room so that she can say goodbye.

“And then you go straight back up as soon as the car’s out of sight,” she orders. Ruth acknowledges her mother with only a look before she steps around her.

James and Morgan are by the car, Pop shaking Morgan’s hand. Then he shakes James’s and holds on just for a second too long. “Godspeed, James.”

“Love you, Pop,” James says. Pop doesn’t say it back. He never does.

Momma stands back by the front door, her back straight and hands clasped in front. She’s already said her goodbye.

Ruth had snuck out of her room when she heard mumbles early that morning. There, between the handrails of the bannister, she witnessed a miracle. Her mother clutched James like a life raft, heaving and weeping as if she were drowning under the flood of emotions she had dammed for years. James rocked her and swayed with her, his own frightened whimpers escaping. It was like they were dancing.

Ruth feels Momma’s eyes as she hugs Morgan first. She realizes in this moment that she’s never hugged Morgan before. Him or Will. So she holds him tight, makes the most of this moment. Her eyes close as his hands falls to her shoulder and her hair. He smells like his Lucky Strike cigarettes and coffee.

When she pulls back she runs to James and jumps into his arms. He crushes her to his chest and holds her up, her feet dangling slightly above the ground. She can’t breathe, but she feels weightless in his embrace.

“You’ll write every day?” she asks her brother. 

“Yes,” he promises. The word feels hollow and empty. 

_Because he can’t promise it_ , says her Devil. The thought pricks her eyes and Ruth holds him tighter. James pushes her away and wipes away the tears falling down her cheeks with his thumbs. Then he smiles and blows a quick bubble into her cheek. A giggle gurgles out of her, but it’s not like before. It will never be like before.

Ruth watches her boys drive away. Momma calls to her, tells her its time to come back inside. She can’t chase her boys this time, and that thought stokes the rage and sadness burning inside of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments! They’ve been so sweet. 💖


	4. Private Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruth and Rebecca have breakfast, and Chuck and Jimmy have to have a serious conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter so far. Focusing primarily on the present for right now, but I’ve gotta set up some stuff that happens later. 😬 Also, we’ve got three different POV’s in here.

**_Summer 1998 - Albuquerque, NM_ **

The sun shifts higher as the hours go by, casting a new sort of glow across New Mexico. A waitress refills their mugs with coffee, and as she leaves, Rebecca reaches for two sugar packets. There’s an unexplained guilt that courses through her as she does. Having sugar in her coffee is nothing untoward, but in this place? A diner that she would never frequent on her own? She feels like she’s insulting the establishment by not drinking her coffee black like everyone else.

She leans back in her chair and watches Ruth gaze at the small photo in her hands. Her mother-in-law tsks and smiles at the two tiny faces peering back at her. No, not tiny anymore. They were precious and small once, yes, but the children in the photo were slowly growing into young women.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous!” Ruth sighs. 

Rebecca smiles, Ruth’s joy infecting her senses. “They are, aren’t they? Chuck was teaching Josie how to play part of ‘Heart and Soul’ on the piano, and Fiona squeezed herself in between them. She refuses to be excluded, even if she’s not interested in what’s happening.”

“When was this picture taken?” 

“Last Christmas. Tony and my sister-in-law, Liesl, invited us up to their home in Vermont, so we spent a few days with them after we saw you in Berwyn.” 

“Ah, good ol’ Uncle Chuck and Aunt Rebecca.”

“Actually, ten years later and I’m still Aunt Becca.”

“Even better! Never let them grow up.” Ruth traces the surface of the photograph, as if she could stroke the hair back on Rebecca’s nephews. Touch the cheek of her oldest son, frozen in time with a piano. When she hands the photo back, Ruth’s grip is so light that it almost falls to the table.

Rebecca opens her purse and grabs the planner where the photo lives pressed between pages filled with schedules. But her eye falls on Chuck and the smile on his face. It had evolved over the years she had shared with him. He had used it as a mask for his discomfort when he held Josie for the first time, and yet now it was something genuine and sweet. Her heart tightens inside of her chest, reminds her that whatever she may be feeling, the logic outweighs it.

“Sweetheart, is something wrong?”

Rebecca looks up, snatched away from the timeless nature of ruminating on lost things by the concerned stare of Ruth McGill. She shakes her head, stuffs the photo away into the planner and hides it in the dark recesses of her purse.

“No!” she insists. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

Ruth remains quiet, her gaze trained on her daughter-in-law. Her weathered fingers wrap around the beige mug in front of her and waits. Rebecca feels the ghost of her own mother sitting inside Ruth. Like a buzzard waiting out in the desert.

Rebecca takes a breath before she gives up the fight. “Chuck and I pulled our application.”

Ruth purses her lips and then takes a sip of her coffee. Her blue eyes are dim as the words float silently between them. Rebecca places her hands in her lap and interlaces her fingers. 

“Let me guess,” Ruth says. “Same song, interchanging verses. The timing’s bad, Chuck has a big case, there’s a tour you can’t turn down. Any of those?”

Rebecca clears her throat, sits up straight and she chooses her words carefully. Well, not  _ her  _ words, exactly. 

“Chuck and I had a discussion, and we both came to the conclusion that we’re just getting too old to be parents. That maybe we should enjoy the time that we have.”

The calm dimness of Ruth’s eyes burned away into a brilliant blue. An astonished chuckle escapes her lips before she makes a declaration: “I am going to whip that boy.”

“No, Ruth, he’s right. We are getting older. I’ll be sixty by the time they reach high school. Hell, Chuck would be seventy. That’s not fair to a child, or any of us. It's just too late.”

“What a bunch of horseshit!” 

Ruth’s voice rings out loud enough to echo through the diner. Rebecca waves in apology to the eyes that have darted in their direction. Patrons peak quickly at their table, and a curious child stands in her booth to get a better look before her father sits her down. He stares daggers at Ruth for her language, but she doesn’t notice or care about the attention. 

“I had Jimmy when I was 34-years-old. That’s sixteen whole years between him and Chuck. And you’re only 40-years-old, you would be an amazing mother!”

“I know.”

“Christ, he knew you wanted to have children. He knew it, and the fact that he put it off like that—“

“Ruth, please.” Rebecca’s eyes sting and she twists her head away. She takes the heel of her hand and dabs at her cheeks, trying to dam the tears that escape and slip down her skin. The legs of a chair scratch and groan against the linoleum floor and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Ruth says. “I never had a daughter of my own, so I get carried away with taking your side in things. It’s your marriage. I should respect that.”

Rebecca nods, but doesn’t say anything. She’s busy trying to tamp down the feelings bubbling inside of her. Her mind tries to focus on the sounds around her: a symphony of utensils scratching against plates, mumbles of quieter conversations, coffee being poured into cups nearby. It’s the music of life. Her hurts don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

Ruth smiles and rubs her shoulder in comfort. Then she looks around and leans in to whisper a question into her ear. 

“How big of a spectacle did I make of myself?” she asks.

“I think you taught a little girl over there a new word today. Her father was scowling at you.”

“Well, he can go fuck himself.”

Rebecca can’t help it. A laugh escapes her and a few stray tears fall down her cheeks as she grins. For the first time in a long time, her smile feels genuine.

* * *

Chuck McGill examines the memorandum that glares from the computer screen. The wording has been perfected, the font sized appropriately, and any error is on the program’s limited awareness of the complexities of language. All he needs to do is hit the print button, and that will be that.

But he’s fascinated by the pixels on the screen. The curves of the letters are an illusion. Tiny squares creating a line that look like a curve rather than an actual line. His eyes connect the dots and squares in the same way he used to as a child. His mother once told him that before Grammy Davenport married Poppa, she taught children their letters by drawing dots on their boards and the students would have to trace over them in chalk. 

Chuck can’t remember a time when he didn’t know his letters. His first memory is when he was four-years-old, carrying a copy of  _ Romeo & Juliet  _ to his mother and father’s bedroom, climbing into a chair so that he could return the favor by reading  _ them  _ a bedtime story for once. The look on their faces are emblazoned in his mind forever. The way his dad smiled in astonishment, his mother’s mouth dropped. Dad had pulled him into his arms and uttered words of pride and confusion. But Chuck just watched his mother, staring at him with an unnamed emotion.

A knock pulls Chuck from his thoughts. The door slowly pushes open and his little brother peaks inside. His bangs fall forward, his mouth tense as if he’s a teenager being called into the principal’s office. Again.

“Hey,” Jimmy rasps.

“Come on in,” Chuck responds.

Jimmy closes the door behind him and crosses to the front of his desk. Chuck watches as Jimmy’s hands flex by his sides, unsure whether he should stand or sit for this. His brother’s nervous demeanor doesn’t unnerve him. It’s a response he’s used to. When he walks down the halls after a winning case, underneath the applause there’s a discomfort in the people around him. Smiles that are too tight, heads duck beneath shoulders, breathless chuckles that suggest a facade of confidence as opposed to feeling equal.

If anything, Jimmy’s nervousness around him makes him feel normal. It’s his confidence that Chuck is suspicious of.

“What’s up?” Jimmy asks.

“Have a seat,” Chuck says. As Jimmy sits in the chair, Chuck leans forward and folds his hands. It’s time to address the situation for what it is. 

“First, I wanted to thank you for flying up to Berwyn,” he starts. “I know that it took time out of your schedule—”

Jimmy waves his hand. “It’s fine, Chuck. Mom needed the help and I had the time.”

“That leads me to my next point. I know that this isn’t a pleasant discussion, but we need to sit down with Mom and start making…” Chuck hesitates. He analyzes the look on his brother’s face as he searches for the best word. The last thing that he needs is for an explosive moment of emotion. Calm, collected, and logical. That’s how they have to approach this.

He makes a choice. “We have to start making preparations.”

“Do we really have to talk about this now?” Jimmy’s tone is soft, but there’s a sharp edge to it. There’s no way to avoid the explosion. Instead, Chuck stays the course and braces for impact.

“Yes, Jimmy, we have to talk about this now. Mom has nothing planned. She doesn’t have a will that we know of, no instructions for funeral arrangements. The only information I have to go off of is the plot next to Dad.”

“Chuck, can’t we just enjoy her while she’s here? For chrissakes, she’s dying!”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“We barely even landed, and one of the first things you brought up are arrangements! I mean, jeezus! How can—?”

Chuck tunes out the words and raw emotion that spill out of Jimmy. He merely observes. His little brother inherited their mother’s fire, that was sure. The cords in his neck stretch and his hands move and wave about. Jimmy’s blue eyes glow as he spews fury and grief at the mere thought of confronting the facts. Just like her.

For a brief moment, Chuck’s id pushes forth an image of himself standing up out of his chair and slapping Jimmy across the face.

But here in reality, as Chuck waits it out, Jimmy stops. He swallows, tries to steady his shallow breaths. His eyes still glow with blue embers, but there’s nothing left to burn.

“Are you finished?” Chuck asks with an eerie calm.

His little brother nods, eyes turned downward. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

Chuck runs a hand over his face, pulls at the skin on his chin. “I know I can be a little… a little cold in these matters” he admits. “And I think that’s why it might be better received if you broached the subject with Mom first.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Jimmy, she listens to you. We have to do this for her.”

Jimmy sits in absolute stillness. He says nothing as he stands up out of the chair and walks to the door. As soon as the latch clicks shut and his brother is out of sight, Chuck leans back in his chair and releases the air that has been caught in his lungs. His muscles relax somewhat, but his skin vibrates with energy and anger.

He starts to breathe in and out, finding a slow rhythm that calms the quakes. Same way his father taught him. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold. Breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold.

But all he wants to do is hold. Hold.  _ Hold _ .

* * *

The sun hangs a little lower in the sky now, and heat seeps through the parking garage. But the light itself only comes in with a bold orange-yellow stripe. The thick line highlights Kim Wexler’s body, hints at the threadbare and thin fabric of an old white blouse, but her head and what lies within it are hidden in shadow.

Kim exhales and smoke curls into dancing strings that mingle and dissipate into the air. She watches the gray swirls and barely registers the elevator singing. But the glass door opens and Jimmy is there. His back presses against the cement wall and he stares ahead of him. Even with the shadows hiding his own face, she can see that his eyes are unfocused. Blue irises devoid of life and light.

“You okay?” she asks.

No answer. Kim offers him her cigarette, but he shakes his head. She flicks the cigarette to the ground and snuffs it out with the toe of her high heel. Her watch reads that she has two minutes left of her fifteen-minute break.

_ I have to get back upstairs _ , she thinks. Kim isn’t skilled in emotional comfort. Not when she spent years burying her thoughts and secrets to get to where she is now. She knows how to handle being alone. It feels _safer_ to be alone. When she had to live with roommates, she would hide away in her bedroom to study and sleep. During networking events, she focuses on the firm and cases she has negotiated, and any personal questions are swept away and the topic changed. And anyone that ever expresses romantic in her? Well, you can light a fire if you can’t find the match. And she’s an expert at hiding in plain sight.

Jimmy’s mother is dying and she’s in town. That’s all Kim knows. After she had picked him up the previous night, he gave her the basic facts but it had been too late to delve into detail. The exhaustion of last night seems to have carried over into today. The bags under his eyes are dark and his cheeks are puffy. Normal people would have gone into his apartment to sit with him, help him process through his trip and the news. 

But she was useless last night. No, helpless. Hopeless. She just sat there in the driver’s seat as he talked. Then Kim told him to call her if he needed anything. But what could he possibly need from her?

_ You _ , she concedes to herself.  _ He needs you. _

Kim moves closer to Jimmy and cautiously slips her hand into his. The skin of his palm his warm and rough against hers, and her heart beats just a little faster as she intertwines her fingers with his. Jimmy looks down at their hands clasped together and then at her. She prays that the shadows don’t betray her and hide the cracks that are starting to show.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Kim shrugs. “Nothing.”

He presses his lips into a tight line. Then turns his attention back to his thoughts, his eyes unfocusing again as he goes inward. But Jimmy’s grip on her hand tightens just enough to tether him to this moment. _Don’t be stupid_ , she reminds herself. _He’s tethering himself to you._

It feels too easy, this small step. And if she’s not careful, the fall is going to break her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments, I love them so much! 💕 We’re traveling back in time next chapter.


End file.
